The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  High within Palotza Radiskoye, the setting sun angled in through deeply recessed windows. It fell upon a tall black rook, which unlike the golden band around its ankle or the silver perch upon which it stood, seemed to absorb the light completely, making it black as night in the dying light of day. It did not preen nor move along its perch, but instead studied Nikandr with an intelligent gleam in its eye. It was Mother’s favorite, Yrfa, the one she inhabited most often, though whether this was due to some form of affinity or because the bird happened to be the easiest to assume, he didn’t know.

  “You sensed nothing?” Nikandr asked.

  “Nothing,” the rook replied, “until the hezhan had entered this world.” The words, though spoken through a primitive tool, had the cadence and inflection of his mother’s voice.

  A gold chain swung lazily from Nikandr’s hand in time with the beating of his heart. Hanging from the end of the chain was his soulstone pendant—still darkened, an effect that had proved all too permanent. He pressed his fingers to his chest, recalling the sharp pressure as he was blacking out. “How could they have done such a thing?”

  “There was a similar occurrence when I was still young to the ways of the aether. Four years into the Great Drought, a havahezhan crossed. It was two days after the equinox, and harvest was still in full celebration in Izhny. It headed straight for the festival grounds. It ripped three children limb from limb before vanishing.”

  Nikandr shivered, wondering if the hezhan had been about to do the same to him. He rubbed the smooth surface of the stone, barely able to sense the cracks. It had been given to him at birth; since his blooding day he had never been parted from it. It had held the tale of his life, his essence; now, he didn’t know whether his legacy had been tarnished, or worse, wiped away altogether. Even damaged as it was, the stone would one day be placed in the family’s mausoleum beneath the palotza. It was something he—like any member of a royal family—looked forward to leaving behind when he died. He had imagined it would be a grand stone, one that would outshine all of those around it, but now... Now he would be leaving behind a shadow, a silhouette, and it shamed him that he had allowed such a thing to happen.

  There was one small consolation—he had feared that the stone and the abilities it granted had been permanently damaged, but when he had returned to Radiskoye he found that he could sense Saphia, his mother, and she in turn could sense him. He had no doubts, however, that when he traveled beyond a certain distance their mutual bond would attenuate and then vanish altogether.

  “Why only children?” Nikandr asked.

  “I cannot say. The hezhan are drawn to certain people, perhaps as they are drawn to the Aramahn. But that spirit, even though it had fully crossed, appeared dim to me, as if I were looking through a pane of dusty glass. The hezhan that crossed today, I saw it as bright as a full moon against the midnight sky.”

  “You were young then. Inexperienced.”

  The rook’s head dipped and craned upward. “Da, but I do not think that was the cause. Things have been strange these last few years, Nischka. The fishing, the fields, the game—all struck by the blight longer and harder than we could have imagined. And at the same time the wasting grows worse. Perhaps this crossing is but another facet of the same jewel.”

  Nikandr stared levelly at the rook, wondering if she had guessed his mind. He suspected that the hezhan attacked him because of the disease. After all, there were others on the ship with soulstones. Why not them? He alone had the wasting, and his symptoms had intensified the moment the hezhan had been summoned. There must be some sort of connection. But he could not voice his concerns no matter how burning they might be. His shame at hiding the disease for so long was too great.

  The door opened, and in stepped his father, Iaros. He wore an embroidered kaftan the color of emeralds that ran down to his ankles. The tips of his silk slippers poked out from beneath the hem. His beard hung down to his chest and, like his hair, had only a token amount of the brown color that had not long ago been dominant. His soulstone, glowing faintly beneath his beard, seemed mocking.

  Father nodded in greeting and paced over to the perch, holding out one finger. The rook ran its beak along his finger several times, and then he smoothed down the rook’s breast feathers.

  These signs of affection were reserved for Mother; there were none for Nikandr as he stared down gravely. “The ship is in bad shape, Nischka.”

  “There was nothing I could have done.”

  “You could have stayed the course given to you.”

  “I told you—”

  “Da, Borund requested that you shorten the tour, no doubt so you could go drinking in Volgorod. Council is being held on Khalakovo, if you’ll recall, and the Gorovna is still our property until your wedding day.”

  “We might not have found the Maharraht.”

  “You confuse the relationship. It was they that found you.”

  “How could they have known?”

  “Stop being so naïve, Nikandr. They have spies, here and everywhere else. The Gorovna’s maiden voyage has been common knowledge in two duchies for more than a season. Now Gravlos tells me it will be weeks before repairs are completed.”

  “I don’t think they were spies.” Nikandr stood and looked out through the nearby windows to the cloudy sky beyond. To the west, less than a league away from where he stood, one of Khalakovo’s most powerful warships, watching for the Maharraht, slid into a low bank of clouds and was lost from view. In the forest below, Jahalan was at the site of the hezhan’s crossing, examining it for any evidence that might prove useful. “I think they chose the location for a particular reason.”

  “What reason might that be?”

  Nikandr shrugged. “That’s what I mean to find out.” He pulled the necklace over his head and made to leave.

  “Do not show that stone openly.”

  “Why?” Nikandr asked, disliking the way he had said that stone.

  “Zhabyn is ready to bolt at the first sign of weakness. He’s looking for excuses to demand more out of your wedding or to call it off. We can afford neither.”

  “I have always worn my stone openly.”

  “And there are plenty who don’t. I trust you’ll be able to explain it away to anyone bold enough to speak of it. Now go. Your mother and I have much to discuss.”

  Nikandr left, feeling like a boy dismissed from dinner. There was sense in his father’s words, but when he tucked the pendant inside his shirt and felt the chain tickle his skin as it settled into place, the stone felt weighty, obscene, as if the sign of a coward had now been hung around his neck.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day a bitterly cold snowstorm swept over the islands, leaving behind a cheerless sun and weather that drew warmth from the very marrow of the bones. Wind howled among the cobblestone streets of Old Volgorod, lifting the dusting of snow and creating whorls and eddies among the meager crowd that had gathered to watch the execution. Though many grumbled at the wind and biting snow, Rehada thought nothing of it; it matched perfectly the bitterness and resentment deep in her heart.

  From this ancient circle where the gallows stood, the seven major streets of Volgorod fanned out like cracks in a frozen lake. Along one of these clattered a flatbed wagon pulled by two stout ponies. A soldier dressed in the uniform of the Posadnik’s guard drove the wagon with a light hand, while another, holding onto the driver’s seat for balance, stood in the bed, watching the three young men chained securely behind him.

  As the wagon turned onto the empty street surrounding the circle, tack and chains jingling, the soldiers gave little or no notice to the crowd that had gathered. The boys, however, stared wide-eyed, their faces growing increasingly nervous, until finally the wagon pulled to a halt near the gallows. Standing on the stage were no less than a dozen armed streltsi. Such a show of force was abnormal, but Council was upon them, and apparently there had been some scuffle between the Landed and the Maharraht during the launching of a new trade ship.
Rehada gave the story little credence, however; she had received no word that Maharraht would be coming to the island. More than likely it was a drunken brawl that had grown with the telling.

  The driver climbed over the bench to join his comrade. They looked calm and collected in their long woolen cherkesskas. Even their woolen hats with tassels of gold lent them a look of austerity, as if a hanging were something that came as easily to them as polishing their black leather boots.

  The crowd—most of them Landed peasants—pressed forward, but Rehada stood her ground, studying the boys as they were led one by one from the rear of the wagon to the wooden platform where nooses swung lazily in the wind. The first two boys were scrawny, the sons of a peasant family that lived on the outskirts of the city. They wore simple leather shoes, roughspun trousers and patchwork coats. Socks with holes for fingers to poke through covered their hands. They fought to keep their balance as the streltsi forced them to their places at the gallows, and though they wore looks of remorse as the nooses were fit around their necks, to Rehada it seemed like an act; she doubted they harbored any feelings of true regret for the atrocity they had committed three days before. She didn’t doubt they regretted some things—stealing into the home of one of the city’s richer widows; killing her when they found her unexpectedly home; forcing the third boy, a boy she had come to love, to return with them in a lame attempt at blaming him for their crime—but she doubted very much that they regretted the actual killing or the life of the young man next to them that now stood forfeit.

  They had been discovered by the nephew of the socialite widow while forcing the third boy, Malekh, back to the house. The Posadnik’s men had been alerted, and in short order all three of them had been taken for murder. For days Rehada had felt responsible; Malekh had been heading to Izhny after delivering a message to her. Worse, it was a mostly innocuous warning that a man named Ashan might be coming to her island, that he might have a boy with him, and that she should send word immediately if he were discovered. It was doubly frustrating because she knew Ashan, an arqesh among her people—she knew the boy the note was referring to as well—and so of course she would have sent word immediately upon hearing of their presence on Khalakovo.

  She stared at Malekh, who was just now being led to the third and final position of the gallows. This was no peasant. He was a boy that had begun training as her disciple, a boy his mother—the fates treat her kindly—should be proud of. He wore the garb of the Aramahn: a simple woven cap, inner robes dyed the deepest ocean blue, outer robes only a shade lighter. There was fear and uncertainty in his eyes, but nothing like the simpering of the two next to him. He was facing his death with, if not bravery, contemplation, and it served to raise her already high estimation of him, even in these last few moments of his life.

  When the news of his hanging had arrived yesterday she had gone to the city jail to petition for his release, but because she was not his mother, or any other form of relative, they refused to allow her to speak with him, or to vouch for him to the magistrate. The Landed still did not understand that the wandering people were one. Blood mattered little to them, but it was all important to those that ruled the duchies, and so she’d been forced to leave before they’d asked too many questions about their relationship. It was risky enough coming to the hanging—few Aramahn attended such things, and those that did were often labeled as suspect, as Maharraht, either in mind or in deed—but she could not find it in herself to leave him here to face death on his own. Her presence, at the very least, was something she owed him.

  The shorter and older of the two streltsi began reciting transgressions from the records of the court. As he did, the boy scanned the crowd and finally met her eyes.

  And he smiled.

  He smiled, as if to console her.

  Pain and regret and anger coursed through her. She felt her hardened core crack and fragment, but she did not let those emotions show on her face. Neither did she return his smile, for that would be disingenuous. Instead, she held his gaze with a reassuring look upon her face. She had decided before she came that she would meet his eyes as long as he wished it. She would not turn away, even though the sight of him dangling like a crow from a farmer’s belt would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  Learn, she tried to say. Learn, even in death, and you will be rewarded in the next life.

  The strelet finished by reading the judgment of the magistrate.

  From the corners of her eyes, she saw the seven other Aramahn turn their backs on the gallows, not from any lack of courage, but in protest, as a sign of disapproval. She, however, refused to turn away no matter how much she might wish to do so.

  The rest of the crowd had not brought rotten vegetables or mud, as she had seen happen so often in the cities of the Empire to the west, nor did they shout epithets. They merely watched in silent condemnation.

  The plumes of breath from each of the boys came white upon the wind, but unlike the two next to him, Malekh’s face had transformed into a look of confusion, as if the things he had been sure about only moments ago had been brought into doubt.

  Go well, she wished him, nodding once.

  The strelet, his reading now complete, stepped back. As soon as he had, the other soldier pulled a thick wooden lever. The doors beneath the boys fell away with the clatter of wood. The rope snapped taut, and all three of them bounced once before swinging awkwardly in the wind.

  When they came to rest, the crowd began to disperse, but Rehada remained, watching her young man swing for long moments, storing the image deep within her heart so that she might retrieve it when it was needed most. So lost in this effort was she that when two ponies entered the circle from a nearby street, breaking her trance, she wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Even then, she watched them from the corner of her eye and paid them little mind.

  This was a mistake.

  She should have noted their courtly dress, should have noticed the train of children following them, hoping for a coin or two. When she did look, she realized one of them was staring at her. Nikandr. The Prince upon the Hill.

  Her face burned as she turned away and walked toward the nearest street. He had been on the far side of the circle, and the wind had been blustery. She was wearing clothes that he wouldn’t be accustomed to seeing her wear. It was possible, just possible, that he hadn’t recognized her.

  But she knew in her heart that he had, and it made her anger burn even higher. To be found out by Nikandr because she had, in one of her few acts of compassion, come to bid a friend farewell, was galling, not because she and Nikandr had lain together, but because she had worked so hard to conceal her true self from him.

  No matter. If he discovered she was Maharraht, she would welcome it. She was sick of hiding it in any case, especially from him.

  She turned and headed up one of the curving streets that led uphill toward the Bluff, the section of Volgorod that held her home. The street, as far as she could see, was empty. The light of the sun angled in between the tall stone buildings, leaving much of her path in shadow.

  She stopped when she saw someone sitting at the entryway to an alley.

  He wore two sets of robes: a black inner robe that was wrapped by a wide belt of gray cloth and an outer robe that fell to the tops of his brown leather boots. It was his turban and beard, more than anything, that marked him as one of the Maharraht. His beard was cut long and square. The turban was almond-shaped and ragged; its tail hung down along the front of his chest like a sash of honor.

  It was dangerous to dress this way on Khalakovo, one of the most powerful of the Duchies, and downright foolish to come into the city. These were the clothes worn—not exclusively, but most often—by the Maharraht, the sect of the Aramahn that were bent on the destruction of the Grand Duchy and their Landed ways.

  Rehada approached, but then she stopped, gasping as she recognized him. He had a ruggedly handsome face and dark, commanding eyes. A ragged scar ran down from what was left of his ear to h
is neck and cheek. The upper part of the ear remained, and he wore a handful of golden earrings there.

  This was Soroush, the leader of the Maharraht, and the father of her child.

  He had always been a brazen man, but to come here when he was at such a disadvantage? Snow fell on his dark turban and the stone of jasper held within it. She knew the stone was useless—at least to Soroush—and she wondered if he wore it as a ploy or to remind himself of his past. Soroush was nothing if not steeped in the past.

  She continued walking past him, and he stepped alongside her, the two of them falling into a pace that made it seem as if they had always been together. Still, there were feelings of anxiety and uncertainty welling up inside her. Had it been so long since she’d seen him that she could act this way? Had they fallen so far out of touch?

  “You were told not to take a disciple,” Soroush said.

  “I have been here seven years, Soroush. Questions were being asked.”

  “Attachments, Rehada, are to be avoided.”

  She scoffed. “Have you come this far to chide me over my urge to teach?”

  They walked in silence for a time, their footsteps scuffing the light dusting of snow. She did not look toward him, but she could picture the muscles along his jaw working, as they had always done when she’d tested his patience.

  “We have lost the boy,” Soroush said.

  Then Rehada did look at him. His face was set in stone as he walked, refusing to return her gaze. “How?”

  “I misjudged Ashan. He stole him away a month ago.”

  “Then we are lost.”

  “I do not believe so, not as long as Ashan is headed here to Khalakovo.”

  “Can you be so sure that he is?”

  “The rift over Rhavanki has nearly closed, while the one here over Khalakovo is widening.”

  “That means nothing. If he suspects what you’re about, he’ll keep Nasim away.”